PS 
31/7 


IB 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT 


SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


BY 
HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1894,  1897,  1900,  1904,  1908,  1909, 

1914,  1920,  1921,  1922,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PS 

3/n 


CONTENTS 

I 
OF  BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS 

PAGE 

The  Veery  9 

The  Song-Sparrow  5 

The  Maryland  Yellow-Throat  8 

The  Whip-Poor-Will  11 

Wings  of  a  Dove  15 

The  Hermit  Thrush  17 

Sea-Gulls  of  Manhattan  19 

The  Ruby-Crowned  Kinglet  22 


98625O 


PAGE 

The  Angler's  Reveille  27 

A  November  Daisy  32 

The  Lily  of  Yorrow  34 

n 

OF  SKIES  AND  SEASONS 

If  All  the  Skies  39 

The  After-Echo  40 

Dulciora  42 

Matins  44 

The  Parting  and  the  Coming  Guest  45 

When  Tulips  Bloom  47 

Spring  in  the  North  51 

Spring  in  the  South  56 

How  Spring  Comes  to  Shasta  Jim  58 


PAGE 

The  First  Bird  o'  Spring  63 

A  Bunch  of  Trout-Flies  65 

A  Noon-Song  68 

Turn  o'  the  Tide  71 

Sierra  Madre  73 

School  76 

Indian  Summer  77 

Light  between  the  Trees  78 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaves  81 

Three  Alpine  Sonnets  84 

A  Snow-Song  87 

Roslin  and  Hawthornden  89 

The  Heavenly  Hills  of  Holland  90 

Flood-Tide  of  Flowers  92 

Salute  to  the  Trees  94 

vii 


ra 

OF  THE  UNFAILING  LIGHT 

The  Grand  Canyon  99 

God  of  the  Open  Air  106 

IV 

WAYFARING  PSALMS  IN  PALESTINE 

The  Distant  Road  119 

The  Welcome  Tent  121 

The  Great  Cities  123 

The  Friendly  Trees  126 

The  Pathway  of  Rivers  129 

The  Glory  of  Ruins  131 

The  Tribe  of  the  Helpers  133 

The  Good  Teacher  135 

The  Camp-Fires  of  My  Friend  137 


I 

OF  BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS 


THE  VEERY 

THE  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood 
were  pouring, 

When  first  I  heard  the  nightingale  a  long-lost 
love  deploring. 

So  passionate,  so  full  of  pain,  it  sounded  strange 
and  eerie; 

I  longed  to  hear  a  simpler  strain, — the  wood- 
notes  of  the  veery. 

The  laverock  sings  a  bonny  lay  above  the  Scot- 
tish heather; 

It  sprinkles  down  from  far  away  like  light  and 
love  together; 

He  drops  the  golden  notes  to  greet  his  brooding 
mate,  his  dearie; 

I  only  know  one  song  more  sweet, — the  vespers 
of  the  veery. 

3 


In  English  gardens,  green  and  bright  and  full  of 

fruity  treasure, 
I  heard  the  blackbird  with  delight  repeat  his 

merry  measure: 
The  ballad  was  a  pleasant  one,  the  tune  was 

loud  and  cheery, 
And  yet,  with  every  setting  sun,  I  listened  for 

the  veery. 

But  far  away,  and  far  away,  the  tawny  thrush  is 

singing; 
New  England  woods,  at  close  of  day,  with  that 

clear  chant  are  ringing: 
And  when  my  light  of  life  is  low,  and  heart  and 

flesh  are  weary, 
I  fain  would  hear,  before  I  go,  the  wood-notes  of 

the  veery. 

1895. 


THE  SONG-SPARROW 

THERE  is  a  bird  I  know  so  well, 
It  seems  as  if  he  must  have  sung 
Beside  my  crib  when  I  was  young; 

Before  I  knew  the  way  to  spell 

The  name  of  even  the  smallest  bird, 
His  gentle-joyful  song  I  heard. 

Now  see  if  you  can  tell,  my  dear, 

What  bird  it  is  that,  every  year, 

Sings  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer.' 

He  comes  in  March,  when  winds  are  strong, 
And  snow  returns  to  hide  the  earth; 
But  still  he  warms  his  heart  with  mirth, 

And  waits  for  May.  He  lingers  long 
While  flowers  fade;  and  every  day 
Repeats  his  small,  contented  lay; 

As  if  to  say,  we  need  not  fear 

5 


The  season's  change,  if  love  is  here 

With  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer" 

He  does  not  wear  a  Joseph's-coat 
Of  many  colours,  smart  and  gay; 
His  suit  is  Quaker  brown  and  gray, 

With  darker  patches  at  his  throat. 
And  yet  of  all  the  well-dressed  throng 
Not  one  can  sing  so  brave  a  song. 

It  makes  the  pride  of  looks  appear 

A  vain  and  foolish  thing,  to  hear 

His  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer." 

A  lofty  place  he  does  not  love, 

But  sits  by  choice,  and  well  at  ease, 
In  hedges,  and  in  little  trees 
That  stretch  their  slender  arms  above 
The  meadow-brook;  and  there  he  sings 
Till  all  the  field  with  pleasure  rings; 
And  so  he  tells  in  every  ear, 
That  lowly  homes  to  heaven  are  near 
In  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer." 

6 


I  like  the  tune,  I  like  the  words; 

They  seem  so  true,  so  free  from  art, 

So  friendly,  and  so  full  of  heart, 
That  if  but  one  of  all  the  birds 

Could  be  my  comrade  everywhere, 

My  little  brother  of  the  air, 
I'd  choose  the  song-sparrow,  my  dear, 
Because  he'd  bless  me,  every  year, 
With  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer." 

1895. 


THE  MARYLAND  YELLOW-THROAT 

WHEN  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees 
With  tassels  and  embroideries, 
And  many  blue-eyed  violets  beam 
Along  the  edges  of  the  stream, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  seems  to  say, 
Now  near  at  hand,  now  far  away, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery" 

An  incantation  so  serene, 
So  innocent,  befits  the  scene: 
There's  magic  in  that  small  bird's  note — 
See,  there  he  flits— the  Yellow- throat; 
A  living  sunbeam,  tipped  with  wings, 
A  spark  of  light  that  shines  and  sings 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery." 

You  prophet  with  a  pleasant  name, 
If  out  of  Mary-land  you  came, 

8 


You  know  the  way  that  thither  goes 
Where  Mary's  lovely  garden  grows: 
Fly  swiftly  back  to  her,  I  pray, 
And  try  to  call  her  down  this  way, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery  /" 

Tell  her  to  leave  her  cockle-shells, 
And  all  her  little  silver  bells 
That  blossom  into  melody, 
And  all  her  maids  less  fair  than  she. 
She  does  not  need  these  pretty  things, 
For  everywhere  she  comes,  she  brings 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery  /" 

The  woods  are  greening  overhead, 
And  flowers  adorn  each  mossy  bed; 
The  waters  babble  as  they  run — 
One  thing  is  lacking,  only  one: 
If  Mary  were  but  here  to-day, 
I  would  believe  your  charming  lay, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery  I " 

9 


Along  the  shady  road  I  look — 
Who's  coming  now  across  the  brook? 
A  woodland  maid,  all  robed  hi  white — 
The  leaves  dance  round  her  with  delight, 
The  stream  laughs  out  beneath  her  feet — 
Sing,  merry  bird,  the  charm's  complete, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery  I " 

1895. 


10 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL 

Do  you  remember,  father, — 
It  seems  so  long  ago, — 

The  day  we  fished  together 
Along  the  Pocono  ? 

At  dusk  I  waited  for  you, 
Beside  the  lumber-mill, 

And  there  I  heard  a  hidden  bird 
That  chanted,  "whip-poor-will," 
"  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwitt  I " 
Sad  and  shrill, — "  whippoorwitt  /" 

The  place  was  all  deserted; 

The  mill-wheel  hung  at  rest; 
The  lonely  star  of  evening 

Was  throbbing  in  the  west; 
The  veil  of  night  was  falling; 

The  winds  were  folded  still; 

11 


And  everywhere  the  trembling  air 
Re-echoed  "whip-poor-will!" 
**  Whippoorwill !    whippoorwitt  I ' ' 
Sad  and  shrill, — " whippoorwitt  1" 

You  seemed  so  long  in  coming, 

I  felt  so  much  alone; 
The  wide,  dark  world  was  round  me, 

And  life  was  all  unknown; 
The  hand  of  sorrow  touched  me, 

And  made  my  senses  thrill 
With  all  the  pain  that  haunts  the  strain 

Of  mournful  whip-poor-will. 

"  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwitt  I ' ' 

Sad  and  shrill, — "  whippoorwitt  1" 

What  knew  I  then  of  trouble  ? 

An  idle  little  lad, 
I  had  not  learned  the  lessons 

That  make  men  wise  and  sad. 
I  dreamed  of  grief  and  parting, 

And  something  seemed  to  fill 

12 


My  heart  with  tears,  while  in  my  ears 
Resounded  *  *  whip-poor-will . ' ' 
*'  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill  I ' ' 
Sad  and  shrill, — "  whippoorwill  1" 

'Twas  but  a  cloud  of  sadness, 

That  lightly  passed  away; 
But  I  have  learned  the  meaning 

Of  sorrow,  since  that  day. 
For  nevermore  at  twilight, 

Beside  the  silent  mill, 
I'll  wait  for  you,  in  the  falling  dew, 

And  hear  the  whip-poor-will. 

*  *  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill  I ' ' 

Sad  and  shrill, — " whippoorwill  I" 

But  if  you  still  remember 

In  that  fair  land  of  light, 
The  pains  and  fears  that  touch  us 

Along  this  edge  of  night, 
I  think  all  earthly  grieving, 

And  all  our  mortal  ill, 

13 


To  you  must  seem  like  a  sad  boy's  dream 
Who  hears  the  whip-poor-will. 
"  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill  I " 
A  passing  thrill, — " whippoorwitt !" 


1894. 


14 


WINGS  OF  A  DOVE 


AT  sunset,  when  the  rosy  light  was  dying 

Far  down  the  pathway  of  the  west, 
I  saw  a  lonely  dove  in  silence  flying, 
To  be  at  rest. 

Pilgrim  of  air,  I  cried,  could  I  but  borrow 

Thy  wandering  wings,  thy  freedom  blest, 
I'd  fly  away  from  every  careful  sorrow, 
And  find  my  rest. 


But  when  the  filmy  veil  of  dusk  was  falling, 

Home  flew  the  dove  to  seek  his  nest, 
Deep  in  the  forest  where  his  mate  was  calling 
To  love  and  rest. 

16 


Peace,  heart  of  mine !  no  longer  sigh  to  wander; 

Lose  not  thy  life  in  barren  quest. 
There  are  no  happy  islands  over  yonder; 

Come  home  and  rest. 
1874. 


16 


THE  HERMIT  THRUSH 

O  WONDERFUL  !     How  liquid  clear 
The  molten  gold  of  that  ethereal  tone, 
Floating  and  falling  through  the  wood  alone, 
A  hermit-hymn  poured  out  for  God  to  hear ! 

0  holy,  holy !  holy  !    Hyaline, 

Long  light,  low  light,  glory  of  eventide  I 

Love  far  away,  far  up, — love  divine  I 

Little  love,  too,  for  ever,  ever  near, 

Warm  love,  earth  love,  tender  love  of  mine, 

In  the  leafy  dark  where  you  hide, 

You  are  mine, — mine, — mine! 

Ah,  my  beloved,  do  you  feel  with  me 

The  hidden  virtue  of  that  melody, 

The  rapture  and  the  purity  of  love, 

The  heavenly  joy  that  can  not  find  the  word  ? 

17 


Then,  while  we  wait  again  to  hear  the  bird, 
Come  very  near  to  me,  and  do  not  move, — 
Now,  hermit  of  the  woodland,  fill  anew 
The  cool,  green  cup  of  air  with  harmony, 
And  we  will  drink  the  wine  of  love  with  you. 

May,  1908. 


18 


SEA-GULLS  OF  MANHATTAN 

CHILDREN  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Born  upon  some  lonely  island  shore 
Where  the  wrinkled  ripples  run  and  whisper, 

Where  the  crested  billows  plunge  and  roar; 
Long-winged,  tireless  roamers  and  adventurers, 

Fearless  breasters  of  the  wind  and  sea, 
In  the  far-off  solitary  places 

I  have  seen  you  floating  wild  and  free ! 

Here  the  high-built  cities  rise  around  you; 

Here  the  cliffs  that  tower  east  and  west, 
Honeycombed  with  human  habitations, 

Have  no  hiding  for  the  sea-bird's  nest: 
Here  the  river  flows  begrimed  and  troubled; 

Here  the  hurrying,  panting  vessels  fume, 
Restless,  up  and  down  the  watery  highway, 

While  a  thousand  chimneys  vomit  gloom. 

19 


Toil  and  tumult,  conflict  and  confusion, 

Clank  and  clamour  of  the  vast  machine 
Human  hands  have  built  for  human  bondage — 

Yet  amid  it  all  you  float  serene; 
Circling,  soaring,  sailing,  swooping  lightly 

Down  to  glean  your  harvest  from  the  wave; 
In  your  heritage  of  air  and  water, 

You  have  kept  the  freedom  Nature  gave. 

Even  so  the  wild-woods  of  Manhattan 

Saw  your  wheeling  flocks  of  white  and  gray; 
Even  so  you  fluttered,  followed,  floated, 

Round  the  Half -Moon  creeping  up  the  bay; 
Even  so  your  voices  creaked  and  chattered, 

Laughing  shrilly  o'er  the  tidal  rips, 
While  your  black  and  beady  eyes  were  glistening 

Round  the  sullen  British  prison-ships. 

Children  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Fearless  floaters  'mid  the  double  blue, 

From  the  crowded  boats  that  cross  the  ferries 
Many  a  longing  heart  goes  out  to  you. 

20 


Though  the  cities  climb  and  close  around  us, 
Something  tells  us  that  our  souls  are  free, 

While  the  sea-gulls  fly  above  the  harbour, 
While  the  river  flows  to  meet  the  sea ! 

December,  1905. 


THE  RUBY-CROWNED   KINGLET 


WHERE'S  your  kingdom,  little  king  ? 
Where  the  land  you  call  your  own, 
Where  your  palace  and  your  throne? 

Fluttering  lightly  on  the  wing 

Through  the  blossom-world  of  May, 
Whither  lies  your  royal  way, 
Little  king? 

Far  to  northward  lies  a  land 
Where  the  trees  together  stand 
Closely  as  the  blades  of  wheat 
When  the  summer  is  complete. 
Rolling  like  an  ocean  wide 
Over  vale  and  mountainside, 
Balsam,  hemlock,  spruce  and  pine, — 
All  those  mighty  trees  are  mine. 

22 


There's  a  river  flowing  free, — 
All  its  waves  belong  to  me. 
There's  a  lake  so  clear  and  bright 
Stars  shine  out  of  it  all  night ; 
Rowan-berries  round  it  spread 
Like  a  belt  of  coral  red. 
Never  royal  garden  planned 
Fair  as  my  Canadian  landl 
There  I  build  my  summer  nest, 
There  I  reign  and  there  I  rest, 
While  from  dawn  to  dark  I  sing, 
Happy  kingdom  I    Lucky  king  I 


Back  again,  my  little  king ! 
Is  your  happy  kingdom  lost 
To  the  rebel  knave,  Jack  Frost? 

Have  you  felt  the  snow-flakes  sting  ? 
Houseless,  homeless  in  October, 
Whither  now?     Your  plight  is  sober, 
Exiled  king ! 

23 


Far  to  southward  lie  the  regions 
Where  my  loyal  flower-legions 
Hold  possession  of  the  year, 
Filling  every  month  with  cheer. 
Christmas  wakes  the  winter  rose; 
New  Year  daffodils  unclose; 
Yellow  jasmine  through  the  wood 
Flows  in  February  flood, 
Dropping  from,  the  tallest  trees 
Golden  streams  that  never  freeze. 
Thither  now  I  take  my  flight 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  night. 
Till  I  see  the  southern  moon 
Glisten  on  the  broad  lagoon, 
Where  the  cypress*  dusky  green, 
And  the  dark  magnolia's  sheen, 
Weave  a  shelter  round  mu^home. 
There  the  snow-storms  never  come; 
There  the  bannered  mosses  gray 
Like  a  curtain  gently  sway, 
Hanging  low  on  every  side 
Round  the  covert  where  I  bide, 

24 


Till  the  March  azalea  glows, 
Royal  red  and  heavenly  rose, 
Through  the  Carolina  glade 
Where  my  winter  home  is  made. 
There  I  hold  my  southern  court, 
Full  of  merriment  and  sport : 
There  I  take  my  ease  and  sing, 
Happy  kingdom!    Lucky  king! 


Little  boaster,  vagrant  king, 

Neither  north  nor  south  is  yours, 
You've  no  kingdom  that  endures ! 

Wandering  every  fall  and  spring, 

With  your  ruby  crown  so  slender, 

Are  you  only  a  Pretender, 
Landless  king  ? 

Never  king  by  right  divine 
Ruled  a  richer  realm  than  mine  I 
What  are  lands  and  golden  crowns, 

25 


Armies,  fortresses  and  towns, 
Jewels,  sceptres,  robes  and  rings, — 
What  are  these  to  song  and  wings? 
Everywhere  that  I  can  fly, 
There  I  own  the  earth  and  sky ; 
Everywhere  that  I  can  sing, 
There  Fm  happy  as  a  king. 


1900. 


THE  ANGLER'S  REVEILLE 

WHAT  time  the  rose  of  dawn  is  laid  across  the 

lips  of  night, 
And  all  the  little  watchman-stars  have  fallen 

asleep  in  light, 
'Tis  then  a  merry  wind  awakes,  and  runs  from 

tree  to  tree, 
And  borrows  words  from  all  the  birds  to  sound 

the  reveille. 

This  is  the  carol  the  Robin  throws 

Over  the  edge  of  the  valley; 
Listen  how  boldly  it  flows, 
Sally  on  sally: 

Tirra-lirra, 
Early  morn, 
New  born! 
Day  is  near, 

27 


Clear,  dear. 
Down  the  river 
All  a-quiver, 
Fish  are  breaking; 
Time  for  waking, 
Tup,  tup,  tup! 
Do  you  hear? 
All  clear — 
Wake  up  I 

The  phantom  flood  of  dreams  has  ebbed  and 

vanished  with  the  dark, 
And  like  a  dove  the  heart  forsakes  the  prison 

of  the  ark; 
Now  forth  she  fares  thro'  friendly  woods  and 

diamond-fields  of  dew, 
While  every  voice  cries  out  ."Rejoice!"  as  if 

the  world  were  new. 

This  is  the  ballad  the  Bluebird  sings, 
Unto  his  mate  replying, 

28 


Shaking  the  tune  from  his  wings 
While  he  is  flying: 

Surely,  surely,  surely, 
Life  is  dear 
Even  here. 
Blue  above, 
You  to  love, 
Purely,  purely,  purely. 

There's  wild  azalea  on  the  hill,  and  iris  down 

the  dell, 
And  just  one  spray  of  lilac  still  abloom  beside 

the  well; 
The  columbine  adorns  the  rocks,  the  laurel  buds 

grow  pink, 
Along  the  stream  white  arums  gleam,  and  violets 

bend  to  drink. 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Yellow-throat, 
Fluttering  gaily  beside  you; 

Hear  how  each  voluble  note 
Offers  to  guide  you: 

29 


Which  way,  sir? 
I  say,  sir, 
Let  me  teach  you, 
I  beseech  you  I 
Are  you  wishing 
Jolly  fishing? 
This  way,  sir  I 
I'll  teach  you. 

Then  come,  my  friend,  forget  your  foes  and 
leave  your  fears  behind, 

And  wander  forth  to  try  your  luck,  with  cheer- 
ful, quiet  mind; 

For  be  your  fortune  great  or  small,  you  take 
what  God  will  give, 

And  all  the  day  your  heart  will  say,  "Tis  luck 
enough  to  live." 

This  is  the  song  the  Brown  Thrush  flings 

Out  of  his  thicket  of  roses; 
Hark  how  it  bubbles  and  rings, 

Mark  how  it  closes: 

30 


Lucky  luck, 
What  luck? 
Good  enough  for  me, 
I'm  alive,  you  see  I 
Sun  shining, 
No  repining; 
Never  borrow 
Idle  sorrow; 
Drop  it  I 
Cover  it  up  I 
Hold  your  cup  I 
Joy  will  fill  it, 
Don't  spill  it, 
Steady,  be  ready, 
Good  luck! 
1899. 


31 


A  NOVEMBER  DAISY 

AFTERTHOUGHT  of  summer's  bloom ! 
Late  arrival  at  the  feast, 
Coming  when  the  songs  have  ceased 
And  the  merry  guests  departed, 
Leaving  but  an  empty  room, 
Silence,  solitude,  and  gloom, — 
Are  you  lonely,  heavy-hearted; 
You,  the  last  of  all  your  kind, 
Nodding  in  the  autumn  wind; 
Now  that  all  your  friends  are  flown, 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone? 

Nay,  I  wrong  you,  little"  flower, 
Reading  mournful  mood  of  mine 
In  your  looks,  that  give  no  sign 
Of  a  spirit  dark  and  cheerless ! 
You  possess  the  heavenly  power 


That  rejoices  in  the  hour. 
Glad,  contented,  free,  and  fearless, 
Lift  a  sunny  face  to  heaven 
When  a  sunny  day  is  given ! 
Make  a  summer  of  your  own, 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone ! 

Once  the  daisies  gold  and  white 
Sea-like  through  the  meadow  rolled: 
Once  my  heart  could  hardly  hold 
All  its  pleasures.     I  remember, 
In  the  flood  of  youth's  delight 
Separate  joys  were  lost  to  sight. 
That  was  summer !    Now  November 
Sets  the  perfect  flower  apart; 
Gives  each  blossom  of  the  heart 
Meaning,  beauty,  graoe  unknown, — 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone. 

November,  1899. 


33 


THE  LILY  OF  YORROW 

DEEP  in  the  heart  of  the  forest  the  lily  of  Yorrow 

is  growing; 
Blue  is  its  cup  as  the  sky,  and  with  mystical 

odour  o'erflowing; 
Faintly   it   falls   through   the   shadowy   glades 

when  the  south  wind  is  blowing. 

Sweet  are  the  primroses  pale  and  the  violets  after 
a  shower; 

Sweet  are  the  borders  of  pinks  and  the  blossom- 
ing grapes  on  the  bower; 

Sweeter  by  far  is  the  breath  6f  that  far-away 
woodland  flower. 

Searching  and  strange  in  its  sweetness,  it  steals 
like  a  perfume  enchanted 

34 


Under  the  arch  of  the  forest,  and  all  who  perceive 

it  are  haunted, 
Seeking  and  seeking  for  ever,  till  sight  of  the  lily 

is  granted. 

Who  can  describe  how  it  grows,  with  its  chalice 

of  lazuli  leaning 
Over  a  crystalline  spring,  where  the  ferns  and 

the  mosses  are  greening  ? 
Who  can  imagine  its  beauty,  or  utter  the  depth 

of  its  meaning  ? 

Calm  of  the  journeying  stars,  and  repose  of  the 

mountains  olden, 
Joy  of  the  swift-running  rivers,  and  glory  of 

sunsets  golden, 
Secrets  that  cannot  be  told  in  the  heart  of  the 

flower  are  holden. 

Surely  to  see  it  is  peace  and  the  crown  of  a  life- 
long endeavour; 

Surely  to  pluck  it  is  gladness, — but  they  who  have 
found  it  can  never 
35 


Tell  of  the  gladness  and  peace:  they  are  hid  from 
our  vision  for  ever. 

'Twas  but  a  moment  ago  that  a  comrade  was 

walking  near  me: 
Turning  aside  from  the  pathway  he  murmured  a 

greeting  to  cheer  me, — 
Then  he  was  lost  in  the  shade,  and  I  called  but 

he  did  not  hear  me. 

Why  should  I  dream  he  is  dead,  and  bewail  him 

with  passionate  sorrow? 
Surely  I  know  there  is  gladness  in  finding  the 

lily  of  Yorrow: 
He  has  discovered  it  first,  and  perhaps  I  shall 

find  it  to-morrow. 

1894. 


36 


n 

OF  SKIES  AND  SEASONS 


IF  ALL  THE  SKIES 

IF  all  the  skies  were  sunshine, 
Our  faces  would  be  fain 

To  feel  once  more  upon  them 
The  cooling  plash  of  rain. 

If  all  the  world  were  music, 
Our  hearts  would  often  long 

For  one  sweet  strain  of  silence, 
To  break  the  endless  song. 

If  life  were  always  merry, 
Our  souls  would  seek  relief, 

And  rest  from  weary  laughter 
In  the  quiet  arms  of  grief. 


39 


THE  AFTER-ECHO 

How  long  the  echoes  love  to  play 

Around  the  shore  of  silence,  as  a  wave 
Retreating  circles  down  the  sand ! 
One  after  one,  with  sweet  delay, 
The  mellow  sounds  that  cliff  and  island  gave, 
Have  lingered  in  the  crescent  bay, 
Until,  by  lightest  breezes  fanned, 
They  float  far  off  beyond  the  dying  day 
And  leave  it  still  as  death. 

But  hark,— 
Another  singing  breath 
Comes  from  the  edge  of  dark; 

A  note  as  clear  and  slow 
As  falls  from  some  enchanted  bell, 
Or  spirit,  passing  from  the  world  below, 
That  whispers  back,  Farewell. 

40 


So  in  the  heart, 
When,  fading  slowly  down  the  past, 

Fond  memories  depart, 
And  each  that  leaves  it  seems  the  last; 
Long  after  all  the  rest  are  flown, 
Returns  a  solitary  tone, — 
The  after-echo  of  departed  years, — 
And  touches  all  the  soul  to  tears. 

1871. 


41 


DULCIORA 

A  TEAR  that  trembles  for  a  little  while 
Upon  the  trembling  eyelid,  till  the  world 
Wavers  within  its  circle  like  a  dream, 
Holds  more  of  meaning  in  its  narrow  orb 
Than  all  the  distant  landscape  that  it  blurs. 

A  smile  that  hovers  round  a  mouth  beloved, 
Like  the  faint  pulsing  of  the  Northern  Light, 
And  grows  in  silence  to  an  amber  dawn 
Born  in  the  sweetest  depths  of  trustful  eyes, 
Is  dearer  to  the  soul  than  sun  or  star. 

A  joy  that  falls  into  the  hollow  heart 
From  some  far-lifted  height  of  love  unseen, 
Unknown,  makes  a  more  perfect  melody 
Than  hidden  brooks  that  murmur  in  the  dusk, 
Or  fall  athwart  the  elm*  with  wavering  gleam. 

42 


Ah,  not  for  their  own  sake  are  earth  and  sky 
And  the  fair  ministries  of  Nature  dear, 
But  as  they  set  themselves  unto  the  tune 
That  fills  our  life;  as  light  mysterious 
Flows  from  within  and  glorifies  the  world. 

For  so  a  common  wayside  blossom,  touched 
With   tender   thought,   assumes   a   grace   more 

sweet 

Than  crowns  the  royal  lily  of  the  South; 
And  so  a  well-remembered  perfume  seems 
The  breath  of  one  who  breathes  in  Paradise. 

1872. 


43 


MATINS 

FLOWERS  rejoice  when  night  is  done, 
Lift  their  heads  to  greet  the  sun; 
Sweetest  looks  and  odours  raise, 
In  a  silent  hymn  of  praise. 

So  my  heart  would  turn  away 
From  the  darkness  to  the  day; 
Lying  open  in  God's  sight 
Like  a  flower  hi  the  light. 


44 


THE  PARTING  AND  THE  COMING 
GUEST 

WHO  watched  the  worn-out  Winter  die? 
Who,  peering  through  the  window-pane 
At  nightfall,  under  sleet  and  rain 

Saw  the  old  graybeard  totter  by? 

Who  listened  to  his  parting  sigh, 
The  sobbing  of  his  feeble  breath, 
His  whispered  colloquy  with  Death, 
And  when  his  all  of  life  was  done 

Stood  near  to  bid  a  last  good-bye? 
Of  all  his  former  friends  not  one 

Saw  the  forsaken  Winter  die. 

Who  welcomed  in  the  maiden  Spring? 

Who  heard  her  footfall,  swift  and  light 

As  fairy-dancing  in  the  night? 
Who  guessed  what  happy  dawn  would  bring 
The  flutter  of  her  bluebird's  wing, 
45 


The  blossom  of  her  mayflower-face 
To  brighten  every  shady  place  ? 
One  morning,  down  the  village  street, 

"Oh,  here  am  I,"  we  heard  her  sing, — 
And  none  had  been  awake  to  greet 

The  coming  of  the  maiden  Spring. 

But  look,  her  violet  eyes  are  wet 
With  bright,  unf alien,  dewy  tears; 
And  in  her  song  my  fancy  hears 

A  note  of  sorrow  trembling  yet. 

Perhaps,  beyond  the  town,  she  met 
Old  Winter  as  he  limped  away 
To  die  forlorn,  and  let  him  lay 
His  weary  head  upon  her  knee, 

And  kissed  his  forehead  with  regret 
For  one  so  gray  and  lonely, — see, 

Her  eyes  with  tender  tears  are  wet. 

And  so,  by  night,  while  we  were  all  at  rest, 
I  think  the  coming  sped  the  parting  guest. 

1873. 

46 


WHEN  TULIPS  BLOOM 


WHEN  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Go  wandering  down  the  dusty  town, 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow, 

And  leads  the  eyes  to  sunset  skies 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow; 

Then  weary  seems  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade: 
I'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 

47 


I  guess  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  then*  dun, 
For  yellow  coats,  to  match  the  sun; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees: 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these  ? 

in 

I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaks  upward  slowly  from  the  ground, 
While  on  the  wing  the  bluebirds  ring 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around. 

48 


The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush;  and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  grows, 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "Good  cheer." 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm. 

How  much  I'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm ! 


'Tis  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record,  or  my  line. 

Only  an  idle  little  stream, 
Whose  amber  waters  softly  gleam, 

Where  I  may  wade  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream : 
49 


Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art: 

'Tis  all  I'm  wishing — old-fashioned  fishing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart. 

1894. 


SPRING  IN  THE  NORTH 


AH,  who  will  tell  me,  in  these  leaden  days, 

Why  the  sweet  Spring  delays, 

And  where  she  hides, — the  dear  desire 

Of  every  heart  that  longs 
For  bloom,  and  fragrance,  and  the  ruby  fire 
Of  maple-buds  along  the  misty  hills, 
And  that  immortal  call  which  fills 

The  waiting  wood  with  songs? 
The  snow-drops  came  so  long  ago, 

It  seemed  that  Spring  was  near ! 

But  then  returned  the  snow 
With  biting  winds,  and  earth  grew  sere, 

And  sullen  clouds  drooped  low 
To  veil  the  sadness  of  a  hope  deferred: 
Then  rain,  rain,  rain,  incessant  rain 

Beat  on  the  window-pane, 

51 


Through  which  I  watched  the  solitary  bird 
That  braved  the  tempest,  buffeted  and  tossed 
With  rumpled  feathers  down  the  wind  again. 

Oh,  were  the  seeds  all  lost 
When  winter  laid  the  wild  flowers  hi  their  tomb  ? 

I  searched  the  woods  in  vain 
For  blue  hepaticas,  and  trilliums  white, 
And  trailing  arbutus,  the  Spring's  delight, 
Starring  the  withered  leaves  with  rosy  bloom. 

But  every  night  the  frost 
To  all  my  longing  spoke  a  silent  nay, 
And  told  me  Spring  was  far  away. 
Even  the  robins  were  too  cold  to  sing, 
Except  a  broken  and  discouraged  note, — 
Only  the  tuneful  sparrow,  on  whose  throat 
Music  has  put  her  triple  finger-print, 
Lifted  his  head  and  sang  my  heart  a  hint, — 
"Wait,  wait,  wait !  oh,  wait  a  while  for  Spring !" 

n 

But  now,  Carina,  what  divine  amends 
For  all  delay !     What  sweetness  treasured  up, 

52 


What  wine  of  joy  that  blends 
A  hundred  flavours  in  a  single  cup, 
Is  poured  into  this  perfect  day ! 
For  look,  sweet  heart,  here  are  the  early  flowers 

That  lingered  on  their  way, 
Thronging  in  haste  to  kiss  the  feet  of  May, 
Entangled  with  the  bloom  of  later  hours, — 
Anemones  and  cinque-foils,  violets  blue 
And  white,  and  iris  richly  gleaming  through 
The  grasses  of  the  meadow,  and  a  blaze 
Of  butter-cups  and  daisies  in  the  field, 

Filling  the  ah*  with  praise, 
As  if  a  chime  of  golden  bells  had  pealed ! 

The  frozen  songs  within  the  breast 
Of  silent  birds  that  hid  in  leafless  woods, 

Melt  into  rippling  floods 

Of  gladness  unrepressed. 
Now  oriole  and  bluebird,  thrush  and  lark, 
Warbler  and  wren  and  vireo, 
Mingle  their  melody;  the  living  spark 
Of  love  has  touched  the  fuel  of  desire, 
And  every  heart  leaps  up  in  singing  fire. 

53 


It  seems  as  if  the  land 
Were  breathing  deep  beneath  the  sun's  caress, 

Trembling  with  tenderness, 

While  all  the  woods  expand, 
In  shimmering  clouds  of  rose  and  gold  and  green, 
To  veil  a  joy  too  sacred  to  be  seen. 


Come,  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
True  love,  long  sought  and  found  at  last, 
And  lead  me  deep  into  the  Spring  divine 

That  makes  amends  for  all  the  wintry  past. 
For  all  the  flowers  and  songs  I  feared  to  miss 

Arrive  with  you; 
And  in  the  lingering  pressure  of  your  kiss 

My  dreams  come  true; 
And  in  the  promise  of  your  generous  eyes 

I  read  the  mystic  sign 

Of  joy  more  perfect  made 

Because  so  long  delayed, 
And  bliss  enhanced  by  rapture  of  surprise. 

54 


Ah,  think  not  early  love  alone  is  strong; 
He  loveth  best  whose  heart  has  learned  to  wait: 
Dear  messenger  of  Spring  that  tarried  long, 
You're  doubly  dear  because  you  come  so  late. 


SPRING  IN  THE  SOUTH 

Now  in  the  oak  the  sap  of  life  is  welling, 

Tho*  to  the  bough  the  rusty  leafage  clings; 
Now  on  the  elm  the  misty  buds  are  swelling; 

Every  little  pine-wood  grows  alive  with  wings; 
Blue-jays  are  fluttering,  yodeling  and  crying, 

Meadow-larks   sailing   low   above   the    faded 

grass, 
Red-birds  whistling  clear,  silent  robins  flying, — 

Who  has  waked  the  birds  up?     What  has 
come  to  pass? 

Last  year's  cotton-plants,  desolately  bowing, 

Tremble  in  the  March-wind, ragged  and  forlorn, 
Red  are  the  hillsides  of  the  early  ploughing, 

Gray  are  the  lowlands,  waiting  for  the  corn. 
Earth  seems  asleep,  but  she  is  only  feigning; 

Deep  in  her  bosom  thrills  a  sweet  unrest; 
Look  where  the  jasmine  lavishly  is  raining 

Jove's  golden  shower  into  Danae's  breast ! 

56 


Now  on  the  plum-tree  a  snowy  bloom  is  sifted, 

Now  on  the  peach-tree,  the  glory  of  the  rose, 
Far  o'er  the  hills  a  tender  haze  is  drifted, 

Full  to  the  brim  the  yellow  river  flows. 
Dark  cypress  boughs  with  vivid  jewels  glisten, 

Greener  than  emeralds  shining  in  the  sun. 
Whence  comes  the  magic?     Listen,  sweetheart, 
listen ! 

The  mocking-bird  is  singing:  Spring  is  begun. 

Hark,  in  his  song  no  tremor  of  misgiving ! 

All  of  his  heart  he  pours  into  his  lay, — 
"Love,  love,  love,  and  pure  delight  of  living: 

Winter  is  forgotten:  here's  a  happy  day!" 
Fan*  hi  your  face  I  read  the  flowery  presage, 

Snowy  on  your  brow  and  rosy  on  your  mouth : 
Sweet   hi  your  voice  I  hear  the  season's  mes- 
sage,— 

Love,  love,  love,  and  Spring  in  the  South! 

1904. 


57 


HOW  SPRING  COMES  TO  SHASTA  JIM 

I  NEVER  seen  no  "red  gods";  I  dunno  wot's  a 
"lure"; 

But  if  it's  sumpin'  takin',  then  Spring  has  got 
it  sure; 

An*  it  doesn't  need  no  Kiplins,  ner  yet  no  Lon- 
don Jacks, 

To  make  up  gun*  about  it,  w'ile  settin'  in  their 
shacks. 

It's   sumpin'  very   simple   'at  happens   in   the 

Spring, 
But  it  changes  all  the  lookin's  of  every  blessed 

thing; 
The  buddin'  woods  look  bigger,  the  mounting 

twice  as  high, 
But  the  house  looks  kindo  smaller,  tho  I  couldn't 

tell  ye  why. 

58 


It's  cur'ous  wot  a  show-down  the  month  of  April 

makes, 
Between  the  reely  livin',  an*  the  things  'at's 

only  fakes ! 
Machines  an'  barns  an*  buildin's,  they  never 

give  no  sign; 
But  the  livin'  things  look  lively  w'en  Spring  is 

on  the  line. 

She  doesn't  come  too  suddin,  ner  she  doesn't 

come  too  slow; 
Her  gaits  is  some  cayprishus,  an*  the  next  ye 

never  know, — 
A  single-foot  o'  sunshine,  a  buck  o*  snow  er 

hail,— 
But  don't  be  disapp'inted,  fer  Spring  ain't  goin' 

ter  fail. 

She's  loopin'   down  the  hillside, — the  driffs  is 

fadin'  out. 
She's  runnin'  down  the  river, — d'ye  see  them 

risin'  trout? 

59 


She's  loafin*  down  the  canyon, — the  squaw- 
bed's  growin'  blue, 

An*  the  teeny  Johnny-jump-ups  is  jest  a-peekin' 
thru. 

A  thousan*  miles  o*  pine-trees,  with  Douglas 
firs  between, 

Is  wait  in'  fer  her  fingers  to  freshen  up  their 
green; 

With  little  tips  o'  brightness  the  firs  'ill  sparkle 
thick, 

An*  every  yaller  pine-tree,  a  giant  candle- 
stick ! 

The  underbrush  is  risin*  an*  spreadin*  all  around, 
Jest  like  a  mist  o'  greenness  'at  hangs  above 

the  ground; 

A  million  manzanitas  'ill  soon  be  full  o'  pink; 
So  saddle  up,  my  sonny, — it's  time  to  ride,  I 

think! 


60 


We'll  ford  er  swim  the  river,  becos  there  ain't 

no  bridge; 
We'll  foot  the  gulches  careful,  an*  lope  along 

the  ridge; 
We'll  take  the  trail  to  Nowhere,  an'  travel  till 

we  tire, 
An'  camp  beneath  a  pine-tree,  an'  sleep  beside 

the  fire. 

We'll  see  the  blue-quail  chickens,  an'  hear  'em 

pipin'  clear; 
An'  p'raps  we'll  sight  a  brown-bear,  er  else  a 

bunch  o'  deer; 
But  nary  a  heathen  goddess  or  god  'ill  meet 

our  eyes; 
For  why?     There  isn't  any!     They're  jest  a 

pack  o'  lies ! 

Oh,  wot's  the  use  o'  "red  gods,"  an'  "Pan,"  an* 

all  that  stuff? 
The  natcheral  facts  o'  Springtime  is  wonderful 

enuff! 

61 


An*  if  there's  Someone  made  'em'  I  guess  He 

understood, 
To  be  alive  in  Springtime  would  make  a  man 

feel  good. 

California,  1918. 


THE  FIRST  BIRD  O'  SPRING 

TO   OLIVE  WHEELER 

WINTER  on  Mount  Shasta, 

April  down  below; 

Golden  hours  of  glowing  sun. 

Sudden  showers  of  snow ! 

Under  leafless  thickets 

Early  wild-flowers  cling; 

But,  oh,  my  dear,  I'm  fain  to  hear 

The  first  bird  o'  Spring ! 

Alders  are  hi  tassel, 

Maples  are  in  bud; 

Waters  of  the  blue  McCloud 

Shout  in  joyful  flood; 

Through  the  giant  pine-trees 

Flutters  many  a  wing; 

But,  oh,  my  dear,  I  long  to  hear 

The  first  bird  o'  Spring ! 


Candle-light  and  fire-light 
Mingle  at  "the  Bend"; 
'Neath  the  roof  of  Bo-hai-pan 
Light  and  shadow  blend. 
Sweeter  than  a  wood-thrush 
A  maid  begins  to  sing; 
And,  oh,  my  dear,  I'm  glad  to  hear 
The  first  bird  o'  Spring ! 

The  Bend,  California,  April  29,  1913. 


64 


A  BUNCH  OF  TROUT-FLIES 

FOB  ARCHIE  RUTLEDGE 

HERE'S  a  half-a-dozen  flies, 
Just  about  the  proper  size 
For  the  trout  of  Dickey's  Run, — 
Luck  go  with  them  every  one ! 

Dainty  little  feathered  beauties, 
Listen  now,  and  learn  your  duties: 
Not  to  tangle  in  the  box; 
Not  to  catqh  on  logs  or  rocks, 
Boughs  that  wave  or  weeds  that  float, 
Nor  in  the  angler's  "pants"  or  coat! 
Not  to  lure  the  glutton  frog 
From  his  banquet  in  the  bog; 
Nor  the  lazy  chub  to  fool, 
Splashing  idly  round  the  pool; 
Nor  the  sullen  horned  pout 
From  the  mud  to  hustle  out ! 

65 


None  of  this  vulgarian  crew, 
Dainty  flies,  is  game  for  you. 
Darting  swiftly  through  the  air 
Guided  by  the  angler's  care, 
Light  upon  the  flowing  stream 
Like  a  winged  fairy  dream; 
Float  upon  the  water  dancing, 
Through  the  lights  and  shadows  glancing, 
Till  the  rippling  current  brings  you, 
And  with  quiet  motion  swings  you, 
Where  a  speckled  beauty  lies 
Watching  you  with  hungry  eyes. 

Here's  your  game  and  here's  your  prize ! 
Hover  near  him,  lure  him,  tease  him, 
Do  your  very  best  to  please  him, 
Dancing  on  the  water  foamy, 
Like  the  frail  and  fab  Salome, 
Till  the  monarch  yields  at  last, 
Rises,  and  you  have  him  fast ! 
Then  remember  well  your  duty, — 
Do  not  lose,  but  land,  your  booty; 


For  the  finest  fish  of  all  is 
ScUvelinus  Fontinalis. 

So,  you  plumed  illusions,  go, 
Let  my  comrade  Archie  know 
Every  day  he  goes  a-fishing 
I'll  be  with  him  in  well-wishing. 
Most  of  all  when  lunch  is  laid 
In  the  dappled  orchard  shade, 
With  Will,  Corinne,  and  Dixie  too, 
Sitting  as  we  used  to  do 
Round  the  white  cloth  on  the  grass 
While  the  lazy  hours  pass, 
And  the  brook's  contented  tune 
Lulls  the  sleepy  afternoon, — 
Then's  the  time  my  heart  will  be 
With  that  pleasant  company ! 

June  17,  1913. 


67 


A  NOON-SONG 

THERE  are  songs  for  the  morning  and  songs  for 

the  night, 
For  sunrise   and  sunset,   the  stars   and   the 

moon; 

But  who  will  give  praise  to  the  fulness  of  light, 
And  sing  us  a  song  of  the  glory  of  noon? 
Oh,  the  high  noon,  the  clear  noon, 

The  noon  with  golden  crest; 
When  the  blue  sky  burns,  and  the  great  sun 

turns 
With  his  face  to  the  way  of  the  west ! 

How  swiftly  he  rose  in  the  dawn  of  his  strength ! 
How  slowly  he  crept  as  the  morning  wore  by! 
Ah,  steep  was   the  climbing  that  led    him  at 
length 


To  the  height  of  his  throne  in  the  wide  sum- 
mer sky. 
Oh,  the  long  toil,  the  slow  toil, 

The  toil  that  may  not  rest, 
Till  the  sun  looks  down  from  his  journey's 

crown, 
To  the  wonderful  way  of  the  west ! 

Then  a  quietness  falls  over  meadow  and  hill, 

The  wings  of  the  wind  in  the  forest  are  furled, 
The  river  runs  softly,  the  birds  are  all  still, 
The  workers  are  resting  all  over  the  world. 
Oh,  the  good  hour,  the  kind  hour, 
The  hour  that  calms  the  breast ! 
Little  inn  half-way  on  the  road  of  the  day, 
Where  it  follows  the  turn  to  the  west ! 

There's  a  plentiful  feast  in  the  maple-tree  shade, 
The  lilt  of  a  song  to  an  old-fashioned  tune, 

The  talk  of  a  friend,  or  the  kiss  of  a  maid, 
To  sweeten  the  cup  that  we  drink  to  the  noon. 

69 


Oh,  the  deep  noon,  the  full  noon, 

Of  all  the  day  the  best ! 
When  the  blue  sky  burns,  and  the  great 
sun  turns 

To  his  home  by  the  way  of  the  west ! 

1906. 


70 


TURN  O>  THE  TIDE 

THE  tide  flows  in  to  the  harbour, — 

The  bold  tide,  the  gold  tide,  the  flood  o'  the 

sunlit  sea, — 
And  the  little  ships  riding  at  anchor, 

Are  swinging  and  slanting  their  prows  to  the 

ocean,  panting 

To  lift  their  wings  to  the  wide  wild  air, 
And    venture    a    voyage    they    know    not 

where, — 
To  fly  away  and  be  free ! 

The  tide  runs  out  of  the  harbour, — 

The  low  tide,  the  slow  tide,  the  ebb  o'  the 

moonlit  bay, — 
And  the  little  ships  rocking  at  anchor, 

Are  rounding  and  turning  their  bows  to  the 
landward,  yearning 

71 


To  breathe  the  breath  of  the  sun-warmed 

strand, 

To  rest  in  the  lee  of  the  high  hill  land,— 
To  hold  their  haven  and  stay ! 

My  heart  goes  round  with  the  vessels, — 

My  wild  heart,  my  child  heart,  in  love  with 

the  sea  and  the  land, — 
And  the  turn  o'  the  tide  passes  through  it, 
In  rising  and  falling  with  mystical  currents, 

calling 
At  morn,   to  range  where   the  far  waves 

foam, 

At  night,  to  a  harbour  in  love's  true  home, 
With  the  hearts  that  understand ! 

Seal  Harbour,  August  12,  1911. 


SIERRA  MADRE 

O  MOTHER  mountains  !  billowing  far  to  the  snow- 
lands, 

Robed  in  aerial  amethyst,  silver,  and  blue, 
Why  do  ye  look  so  proudly  down  on  the  low- 
lands? 

What  have  then-  groves  and  gardens  to  do 
with  you  ? 

Theirs  is  the  languorous  charm  of  the  orange 

and  myrtle, 
Theirs  are  the  fruitage  and  fragrance  of  Eden 

of  old,— 
Broad-boughed  oaks  in  the  meadows  fair  and 

fertile, 

Dark-leaved  orchards  gleaming  with  globes  of 
gold. 

73 


You,  in  your  solitude  standing,  lofty  and  lonely, 
Bear  neither  garden  nor  grove  on  your  barren 

breasts; 

Rough  is  the  rock-loving  growth  of  your  can- 
yons, and  only 

Storm-battered   pines   and   fir-trees   cling   to 
your  crests. 

Why  are  ye  throned  so  high,  and  arrayed  in 

splendour 
Richer  than  all  the  fields  at  your  feet  can 

claim? 

What  is  your  right,  ye  rugged  peaks,  to  the  ten- 
der 

Queenly  promise  and  pride  of  the  mother- 
name? 

Answered  the  mountains,  dim  in  the  distance 

dreaming: 

"Ours  are  the  forests  that  treasure  the  riches 
of  ram; 

74 


Ours   are   the  secret   springs   and   the   rivulets 

gleaming 

Silverly   down   through   the   manifold   bloom 
of  the  plain. 

"Vain  were  the  toiling  of  men  in  the  dust  of  the 

dry  land, 

Vain  were  the  ploughing  and  planting  in  water- 
less fields, 
Save  for  the  life-giving  currents  we  send  from 

the  skyland, 

Save  for  the  fruit  our  embrace  with  the  storm- 
cloud  yields." 

O  mother  mountains,  Madre  Sierra,  I  love  you ! 
Rightly  you  reign   o'er   the   vale  that  your 

bounty  fills, — 
Kissed  by  the  sun,  or  with  big,  bright  stars  above 

you, — 
I  murmur  your  name  and  lift  up  mine  eyes  to 

the  hills. 
Pasadena,  March,  1913. 

75 


SCHOOL 

I  PUT  my  heart  to  school 
In  the  world  where  men  grow  wise: 
"Go  out,"  I  said,  "and  learn  the  rule; 
"Come  back  when  you  win  a  prize." 

My  heart  came  back  again: 
"Now  where  is  the  prize?"  I  cried. — 
"The  rule  was  false,  and  the  prize  was  pain, 
"And  the  teacher's  name  was  Pride." 

I  put  my  heart  to  school 

In  the  woods  where  veeries  sing 

And  brooks  run  clear  and  cool, 

In  the  fields  where  wild  flowers  spring. 

"And  why  do  you  stay  so  long 

"My  heart,  and  where  do  you  roam?" 

The  answer  came  with  a  laugh  and  a  song, — 

"I  find  this  school  is  home." 

April,  1901. 

76 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

A  SILKEN  curtain  veils  the  skies, 
And  half  conceals  from  pensive  eyes 

The  bronzing  tokens  of  the  fall; 
A  calmness  broods  upon  the  hills, 
And  summer's  parting  dream  distils 

A  charm  of  silence  over  all. 

The  stacks  of  corn,  in  brown  array, 
Stand  waiting  through  the  tranquil  day, 

Like  tattered  wigwams  on  the  plain; 
The  tribes  that  find  a  shelter  there 
Are  phantom  peoples,  forms  of  air, 

And  ghosts  of  vanished  joy  and  pain. 

At  evening  when  the  crimson  crest 
Of  sunset  passes  down  the  West, 

I  hear  the  whispering  host  returning; 
On  far-off  fields,  by  elm  and  oak, 
I  see  the  lights,  I  smell  the  smoke, — 
The  Camp-fires  of  the  Past  are  burning. 
Tertius  and  Henry  van  Dyke. 
November,  1903. 

77 


LIGHT  BETWEEN  THE  TREES 

LONG,  long,  long  the  trail 

Through  the  brooding  forest-gloom, 
Down  the  shadowy,  lonely  vale 
Into  silence,  like  a  room 

Where  the  light  of  life  has  fled, 
And  the  jealous  curtains  close 
Round  the  passionless  repose 
Of  the  silent  dead. 

Plod,  plod,  plod  away, 

Step  by  step  in  mouldering  moss; 
Thick  branches  bar  the  day 
Over  languid  streams  fhat  cross 

Softly,  slowly,  with  a  sound 
Like  a  smothered  weeping, 
In  their  aimless  creeping 
Through  enchanted  ground. 

78 


"Yield,  yield,  yield  thy  quest," 

Whispers  through  the  woodland  deep; 
"Come  to  me  and  be  at  rest; 
I  am  slumber,  I  am  sleep." 

Then  the  weary  feet  would  fail, 
But  the  never-daunted  will 
Urges  "Forward,  forward  still! 
Press  along  the  trail!" 

Breast,  breast,  breast  the  slope 

See,  the  path  is  growing  steep. 
Hark !  a  little  song  of  hope 

Where  the  stream  begins  to  leap. 

Though  the  forest,  far  and  wide, 
Still  shuts  out  the  bending  blue, 
We  shall  finally  win  through, 
Cross  the  long  divide. 

On,  on,  on  we  tramp ! 

Will  the  journey  never  end? 
Over  yonder  lies  the  camp; 

Welcome  waits  us  there,  my  friend, 

79 


Can  we  reach  it  ere  the  night? 
Upward,  upward,  never  fear ! 
Look,  the  summit  must  be  near; 

See  the  line  of  light ! 

Red,  red,  red  the  shine 

Of  the  splendour  in  the  west, 
Glowing  through  the  ranks  of  pine, 
Clear  along  the  mountain-crest ! 
Long,  long,  long  the  trail 
Out  of  sorrow's  lonely  vale; 
But  at  last  the  traveller  sees 
Light  between  the  trees ! 

March,  1904. 


80 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAVES 


IN  warlike  pomp,  with  banners  flowing, 
The  regiments  of  autumn  stood: 

I  saw  their  gold  and  scarlet  glowing 
From  every  hillside,  every  wood. 

Above  the  sea  the  clouds  were  keeping 
Their  secret  leaguer,  gray  and  still; 

They  sent  their  misty  vanguard  creeping 
With  muffled  step  from  hill  to  hill. 

All  day  the  sullen  armies  drifted 
Athwart  the  sky  with  slanting  rain; 

At  sunset  for  a  space  they  lifted, 
With  dusk  they  settled  down  again. 

81 


At  dark  the  winds  began  to  blow 
With  mutterings  distant,  low; 

From  sea  and  sky  they  called  their  strength, 
Till  with  an  angry,  broken  roar, 
Like  billows  on  an  unseen  shore, 
Their  fury  burst  at  length. 


I  heard  through  the  night 
The  rush  and  the  clamour; 

The  pulse  of  the  fight 

Like  blows  of  Thor's  hammer; 

The  pattering  flight 

Of  the  leaves,  and  the  anguished 

Moan  of  the  forest  vanquished. 


At  daybreak  came  a  gusty  song: 
"Shout!  the  winds  are  strong. 
The  little  people  of  the  leaves  are  fled. 
Shout !    The  Autumn  is  dead !" 

82 


The  storm  is  ended !    The  impartial  sun 
Laughs  down  upon  the  battle  lost  and  won, 
And  crowns  the  triumph  of  the  cloudy  host 
In  rolling  lines  retreating  to  the  coast. 

But  we,  fond  lovers  of  the  woodland  shade, 
And  grateful  friends  of  every  fallen  leaf, 
Forget  the  glories  of  the  cloud-parade, 
And  walk  the  ruined  woods  in  quiet  grief. 

For  ever  so  our  thoughtful  hearts  repeat 
On  fields  of  triumph  dirges  of  defeat; 
And  still  we  turn  on  gala-days  to  tread 
Among  the  rustling  memories  of  the  dead. 

1874. 


THREE  ALPINE  SONNETS 


THE   GLACIER 

AT  dawn  in  silence  moves  the  mighty  stream, 
The  silver-crested  waves  no  murmur  make; 
But  far  away  the  avalanches  wake 

The  rumbling  echoes,  dull  as  in  a  dream; 

Their  momentary  thunders,  dying,  seem 
To  fall  into  the  stillness,  flake  by  flake, 
And  leave  the  hollow  air  with  naught  to  break 

The  frozen  spell  of  solitude  supreme. 

At  noon  unnumbered  rills  begin  to  spring 

Beneath  the  burning  sun,  and  all  the  walls 

Of  all  the  ocean-blue  crevasses  ring 
With  liquid  lyrics  of  their  waterfalls; 

As  if  a  poet's  heart  had  felt  the  glow 

Of  sovereign  love,  and  song  began  to  flow. 

Zennatt,  1872. 

84 


II 

THE   SNOW-FIELD 

White  Death  had  laid  his  pall  upon  the  plain, 
And  crowned  the  mountain-peaks  like  mon- 

archs  dead; 
The  vault  of  heaven  was  glaring  overhead 

With  pitiless  light  that  filled  my  eyes  with  pain; 

And  while  I  vainly  longed,  and  looked  hi  vain 
For  sign  or  trace  of  life,  my  spirit  said, 
"Shall  any  living  thing  that  dares  to  tread 

This  royal  lair  of  Death  escape  again?" 

But  even  then  I  saw  before  my  feet 

A  line  of  pointed  footprints  in  the  snow: 
Some  roving  chamois,  but  an  hour  ago, 
Had  passed  this  way  along  his  journey  fleet, 
And  left  a  message  from  a  friend  unknown 
To  cheer  my  pilgrim-heart,  no  more  alone. 

Zermatt.  1872. 

85 


Ill 

MOVING   BELLS 

I  love  the  hour  that  comes,  with  dusky  hair 
And  dewy  feet,  along  the  Alpine  dells, 
To  lead  the  cattle  forth.    A  thousand  bells 

Go  chiming  after  her  across  the  fair 

And  flowery  uplands,  while  the  rosy  flare 
Of  sunset  on  the  snowy  mountain  dwells, 
And  valleys  darken,  and  the  drowsy  spells 

Of  peace  are  woven  through  the  purple  air. 

Dear  is  the  magic  of  this  hour:  she  seems 
To  walk  before  the  dark  by  falling  rills, 

And  lend  a  sweeter  song  to  hidden  streams; 
She  opens  all  the  doors  of  night,  and  fills 

With  moving  bells  the  music  of  my  dreams, 
That  wander  far  among  the  sleeping  hills. 

Gstaad,  August,  1909. 

86 


A  SNOW-SONG 

DOES  the  snow  fall  at  sea  ? 

Yes,  when  the  north  winds  blow, 
When  the  wild  clouds  fly  low, 
Out  of  each  gloomy  wing, 
Silently  glimmering, 
Over  the  stormy  sea 
Falleth  the  snow. 

Does  the  snow  hide  the  sea? 
Nay,  on  the  tossing  plains 
Never  a  flake  remains; 
Drift  never  resteth  there; 
Vanishing  everywhere, 
Into  the  hungry  sea 
Falleth  the  snow. 

What  means  the  snow  at  sea? 
Whirled  in  the  veering  blast, 

87 


Thickly  the  flakes  drive  past; 
Each  like  a  childish  ghost 
Wavers,  and  then  is  lost; 
In  the  forgetful  sea 
Fadeth  the  snow. 

1875. 


ROSLIN  AND  HAWTHORNDEN 

FAIR  Roslin  Chapel,  how  divine 
The  art  that  reared  thy  costly  shrine ! 
Thy  carven  columns  must  have  grown 
By  magic,  like  a  dream  in  stone. 

Yet  not  within  thy  storied  wall 
Would  I  in  adoration  fall, 
So  gladly  as  within  the  glen 
That  leads  to  lovely  Hawthornden. 

A  long-drawn  aisle,  with  roof  of  green 
And  vine-clad  pillars,  while  between, 
The  Esk  runs  murmuring  on  its  way, 
In  living  music  night  and  day. 

Within  the  temple  of  this  wood 

The  martyrs  of  the  covenant  stood, 

And  rolled  the  psalm,  and  poured  the  prayer, 

From  Nature's  solemn  altar-stair. 

Edinburgh,  1877. 

89 


THE  HEAVENLY  HILLS  OF  HOLLAND 

THE  heavenly  hills  of  Holland, — 

How  wondrously  they  rise 
Above  the  smooth  green  pastures 

Into  the  azure  skies ! 
With  blue  and  purple  hollows, 

With  peaks  of  dazzling  snow, 
Along  the  far  horizon 

The  clouds  are  marching  slow. 

No  mortal  foot  has  trodden 

The  summits  of  that  range, 
Nor  walked  those  mystic  valleys 

Whose  colours  ever'  change; 
Yet  we  possess  their  beauty, 

And  visit  them  in  dreams, 
While  ruddy  gold  of  sunset 

From  cliff  and  canyon  gleams. 

90 


In  days  of  cloudless  weather 

They  melt  into  the  light; 
When  fog  and  mist  surround  us 

They're  hidden  from  our  sight; 
But  when  returns  a  season 

Clear  shining  after  rain, 
While  the  northwest  wind  is  blowing, 

We  see  the  hills  again. 

The  old  Dutch  painters  loved  them, 

Their  pictures  show  them  fair, — 
Old  Hobbema  and  Ruysdael, 

Van  Goyen  and  Vermeer. 
Above  the  level  landscape, 

Rich  polders,  long-armed  mills, 
Canals  and  ancient  cities, — 

Float  Holland's  heavenly  hills. 

The  Hague,  November,  1916. 


91 


FLOOD-TIDE  OF  FLOWERS 

IN  HOLLAND 

THE  laggard  winter  ebbed  so  slow 
With  freezing  rain  and  melting  snow, 
It  seemed  as  if  the  earth  would  stay 
Forever  where  the  tide  was  low, 
In  sodden  green  and  watery  gray. 

But  now  from  depths  beyond  our  sight, 
The  tide  is  turning  in  the  night, 
And  floods  of  colour  long  concealed 
Come  silent  rising  toward  the  light, 
Through  garden  bare  and  empty  field. 

And  first,  along  the  sheltered  nooks, 
The  crocus  runs  in  little  brooks 
Of  joyance,  till  by  light  made  bold 
They  show  the  gladness  of  their  looks 
In  shining  pools  of  white  and  gold. 

92 


The  tiny  scilla,  sapphire  blue, 

Is  gently  seeping  in,  to  strew 

The  earth  with  heaven;  and  sudden  rills 

Of  sunlit  yellow,  sweeping  through, 

Spread  into  lakes  of  daffodils. 

The  hyacinths,  with  fragrant  heads, 
Have  overflowed  their  sandy  beds, 
And  fill  the  earth  with  faint  perfume, 
The  breath  that  Spring  around  her  sheds. 
And  now  the  tulips  break  in  bloom ! 

A  sea,  a  rainbow-tinted  sea, 
A  splendour  and  a  mystery, 
Floods  o'er  the  fields  of  faded  gray: 
The  roads  are  full  of  folks  in  glee, 
For  lo, — to-day  is  Easter  Day ! 

April,  1916. 


93 


SALUTE  TO  THE  TREES 

MANY  a  tree  Is  found  in  the  wood 

And  every  tree  for  its  use  is  good: 

Some  for  the  strength  of  the  gnarled  root, 

Some  for  the  sweetness  of  flower  or  fruit; 

Some  for  shelter  against  the  storm, 

And  some  to  keep  the  hearth-stone  warm; 

Some  for  the  roof,  and  some  for  the  beam, 

And  some  for  a  boat  to  breast  the  stream; — 

In  the  wealth  of  the  wood  since  the  world  began 

The  trees  have  offered  then*  gifts  to  man. 

But  the  glory  of  trees  is  more  than  their  gifts: 
'Tis  a  beautiful  wonder  of  life  that  lifts, 
From  a  wrinkled  seed  in  an  earth-bound  clod, 
A  column,  an  arch  in  the  temple  of  God, 
A  pillar  of  power,  a  dome  of  delight, 
A  shrine  of  song,  and  a  joy  of  sight ! 

94 


Their  roots  are  the  nurses  of  rivers  in  birth; 
Their  leaves  are  alive  with  the  breath  of  the 

earth; 
They  shelter  the  dwellings  of  man;    and   they 

bend 
O'er  his  grave  with  the  look  of  a  loving  friend. 

I  have  camped  in  the  whispering  forest  of  pines, 
I  have  slept  in  the  shadow  of  olives  and  vines; 
In  the  knees  of  an  oak,  at  the  foot  of  a  palm 
I  have  found  good  rest  and  slumber's  balm. 
And  now,  when  the  morning  gilds  the  boughs 
Of  the  vaulted  elm  at  the  door  of  my  house, 
I  open  the  window  and  make  salute: 
"God  bless  thy  branches  and  feed  thy  root! 
Thou  hast  lived  before,  live  after  me, 
Thou  ancient,  friendly,  faithful  tree." 

February,  1920. 


95 


Ill 

OF  THE  UNFAILING  LIGHT 


THE  GRAND  CANYON 

DAYBREAK 

WHAT  makes  the  lingering  Night  so  cling  to 

thee? 

Thou  vast,  profound,  primeval  hiding-place 
Of  ancient  secrets, — gray  and  ghostly  gulf 
Cleft  hi  the  green  of  this  high  forest  land, 
And  crowded  ha  the  dark  with  giant  forms ! 
Art  thou  a  grave,  a  prison,  or  a  shrine  ? 

A  stillness  deeper  than  the  dearth  of  sound 

Broods  over  thee:  a  living  silence  breathes 

Perpetual  incense  from  thy  dun  abyss. 

The  morning-stars  that  sang  above  the  bower 

Of  Eden,  passing  over  thee,  are  dumb 

With   trembling   bright   amazement;    and   the 

Dawn 
Steals  through  the  glimmering  pines  with  naked 

feet, 
Her  hand  upon  her  lips,  to  look  on  thee ! 


She  peers  into  thy  depths  with  silent  prayer 
For  light,  more  light,  to  part  thy  purple  veil. 
O  Earth,  swift-rolling  Earth,  reveal,  reveal, — 
Turn  to  the  East,  and  show  upon  thy  breast 
The  mightiest  marvel  in  the  realm  of  Time ! 

'Tis  done, — the  morning  miracle  of  light, — 
The  resurrection  of  the  world  of  hues 
That  die  with  dark,  and  daily  rise  again 
With  every  rising  of  the  splendid  Sun ! 

Be   still,   my  heart!     Now   Nature  holds   her 

breath 

To  see  the  solar  flood  of  radiance  leap 
Across  the  chasm,  and  crown  the  western  rim 
Of  alabaster  with  a  far-away 
Rampart  of  pearl,  and  flowing  down  by  walls 
Of  changeful  opal,  deepen  into  gold 
Of  topaz,  rosy  gold  of  tourmaline, 
Crimson  of  garnet,  green  and  gray  of  jade, 
Purple  of  amethyst,  and  ruby  red, 
Beryl,  and  sard,  and  royal  porphyry; 

100 


Until  the  cataract  of  colour  breaks 
Upon  the  blackness  of  the  granite  floor. 

How  far  below !    And  all  between  is  cleft 

And  carved  into  a  hundred  curving  miles 

Of  unimagined  architecture !     Tombs, 

Temples,  and  colonnades  are  neighboured  there 

By  fortresses  that  Titans  might  defend, 

And  amphitheatres  where  Gods  might  strive. 

Cathedrals,  buttressed  with  unnumbered  tiers 

Of  ruddy  rock,  lift  to  the  sapphire  sky 

A  single  spire  of  marble  pure  as  snow; 

And  huge  aerial  palaces  arise 

Like  mountains  built  of  unconsuming  flame. 

Along  the  weathered  walls,  or  standing  deep 

In  riven  valleys  where  no  foot  may  tread, 

Are  lonely  pillars,  and  tall  monuments 

Of  perished  aeons  and  forgotten  things. 

My  sight  is  baffled  by  the  wide  array 

Of  countless  forms:   my  vision  reels  and  swims 

Above  them,  like  a  bird  in  whirling  winds. 

Yet  no  confusion  fills  the  awful  chasm; 

101 


But  spacious  order  and  a  sense  of  peace 
Brood  over  all.    For  every  shape  that  looms 
Majestic  in  the  throng,  is  set  apart 
From  all  the  others  by  its  far-flung  shade, 
Blue,  blue,  as  if  a  mountain-lake  were  there. 

How  still  it  is !  Dear  God,  I  hardly  dare 
To  breathe,  for  fear  the  fathomless  abyss 
Will  draw  me  down  into  eternal  sleep. 

What  force  has  formed  this  masterpiece  of  awe  ? 
What  hands  have  wrought  these  wonders  in  the 

waste? 

O  river,  gleaming  in  the  narrow  rift 
Of    gloom    that    cleaves    the    valley's    nether 

deep, — 

Fierce  Colorado,  prisoned  by  thy  toil, 
And  blindly  toiling  still  to  reach  the  sea, — 
Thy    waters,    gathered    from    the    snows    and 

springs 

Amid  the  Utah  hills,  have  carved  this  road 
Of  glory  to  the  California  Gulf. 
But  now,  O  sunken  stream,  thy  splendour  lost, 

102 


'Twixt  iron  walls  thou  rollest  turbid  waves, 
Too  far  away  to  make  their  fury  heard ! 

At  sight  of  thee,  thou  sullen  labouring  slave 
Of  gravitation, — yellow  torrent  poured 
From  distant  mountains  by  no  will  of  thine, 
Through  thrice  a  hundred  centuries  of  slow 
Fallings  and  liftings  of  the  crust  of  Earth, — 
At  sight  of  thee  my  spirit  sinks  and  fails. 
Art  thou  alone  the  Maker?     Is  the  blind 
Unconscious  power  that  drew  thee  dumbly  down 
To  cut  this  gash  across  the  layered  globe, 
The  sole  creative  cause  of  all  I  see? 
Are  force  and  matter  all?    The  rest  a  dream? 

Then  is  thy  gorge  a  canyon  of  despair, 

A  prison  for  the  soul  of  man,  a  grave 

Of  all  his  dearest  daring  hopes !     The  world 

Wherein  we  live  and  move  is  meaningless, 

No  spirit  here  to  answer  to  our  own ! 

The  stars  without  a  guide:    The  chance-born 

Earth 
Adrift  in  space,  no  Captain  on  the  ship: 

103 


Nothing  in  all  the  universe  to  prove 

Eternal  wisdom  and  eternal  love ! 

And  man,  the  latest  accident  of  Tune, — 

Who  thinks  he  loves,  and  longs  to  understand, 

Who  vainly  suffers,  and  in  vain  is  brave, 

Who  dupes  his  heart  with  immortality, — 

Man  is  a  living  lie, — a  bitter  jest 

Upon  himself, — a  conscious  grain  of  sand 

Lost  in  a  desert  of  unconsciousness, 

Thirsting  for  God  and  mocked  by  his  own  thirst. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  mother  of  delight, 

Thou  fairest  offspring  of  Omnipotence 

Inhabiting  this  lofty  lone  abode, 

Speak  to  my  heart  again  and  set  me  free 

From  all  these  doubts  that  darken  earth  and 

heaven ! 

Who  sent  thee  forth  into  the- wilderness 
To  bless  and  comfort  all  who  see  thy  face? 
Who  clad  thee  in  this  more  than  royal  robe 
Of    rainbows?      Who    designed    these    jewelled 

thrones 

104 


For  thee,  and  wrought  these  glittering  palaces? 
Who  gave  thee  power  upon  the  soul  of  man 
To  lift  him  up  through  wonder  into  joy? 
God !  let  the  radiant  cliffs  bear  witness,  God ! 
Let  all  the  shining  pillars  signal,  God ! 
He  only,  on  the  mystic  loom  of  light, 
Hath  woven  webs  of  loveliness  to  clothe 
His  most  majestic  works:   and  He  alone 
Hath  delicately  wrought  the  cactus-flower 
To  star  the  desert  floor  with  rosy  bloom. 

O  Beauty,  handiwork  of  the  Most  High, 
Where'er  thou  art  He  tells  his  Love  to  man, 
And  lo,  the  day  breaks,  and  the  shadows  flee ! 

Now,  far  beyond  all  language  and  all  art 
In  thy  wild  splendour,  Canyon  marvellous, 
The  secret  of  thy  stillness  lies  unveiled 
In  worldless  worship!     This  is  holy  ground; 
Thou  art  no  grave,  no  prison,  but  a  shrine. 
Garden  of  Temples  filled  with  Silent  Praise, 
If  God  were  blind  thy  Beauty  could  not  be ! 
February  24-26,  1913. 

105 


GOD  OF  THE  OPEN  AIR 


THOU  who  hast  made  thy  dwelling  fair 

With  flowers  below,  above  with  starry  lights 
And  set  thine  altars  everywhere, — 

On  mountain  heights, 
In  woodlands  dim  with  many  a  dream, 
In  valleys  bright  with  springs, 
And  on  the  curving  capes  of  every  stream: 
Thou  who  hast  taken  to  thyself  the  wings 

Of  morning,  to  abide 
Upon  the  secret  places  of  the  sea, 

And  on  far  islands,  where  the  tide 
Visits  the  beauty  of  untrodden  shores, 
Waiting  for  worshippers  to  come  to  thee 

In  thy  great  out-of-doors ! 
To  thee  I  turn,  to  thee  I  make  my  prayer, 
God  of  the  open  air. 

106 


Seeking  for  thee,  the  heart  of  man 

Lonely  and  longing  ran, 
In  that  first,  solitary  hour, 

When  the  mysterious  power 
To  know  and  love  the  wonder  of  the  morn 
Was  breathed  within  him,  and  his  soul  was  born; 

And  thou  didst  meet  thy  child, 

Not  in  some  hidden  shrine, 
But  in  the  freedom  of  the  garden  wild, 

And  take  his  hand  in  thine, — 
There  all  day  long  in  Paradise  he  walked, 
And  in  the  cool  of  evening  with  thee  talked. 


Lost,  long  ago,  that  garden  bright  and  pure, 
Lost,  that  calm  day  too  perfect  to  endure, 
And  lost  the  child-like  love  that  worshipped 

and  was  sure ! 

For  men  have  dulled  their  eyes  with  sin, 
And  dimmed  the  light  of  heaven  with  doubt, 

107 


And  built  their  temple  walls  to  shut  thee  in, 
And  framed  their  iron  creeds  to  shut  thee  out. 
But  not  for  thee  the  closing  of  the  door, 
O  Spirit  unconfined ! 
Thy  ways  are  free 
As  is  the  wandering  wind, 
And  thou  hast  wooed  thy  children,  to  restore 

Their  fellowship  with  thee, 
In  peace  of  soul  and  simpleness  of  mind. 


Joyful  the  heart  that,  when  the  flood  rolled  by, 
Leaped  up  to  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky; 
And  glad  the  pilgrim,  in  the  lonely  night, 
For  whom  the  hills  of  Haran,  tier  on  tier, 
Built  up  a  secret  stairway  to  the  height 
Where  stars  like  angel  eyes  were  shining  clear. 
From  mountain-peaks,  in  many  a  land   and 

age, 

Disciples  of  the  Persian  seer 
Have  hailed  the  rising  sun  and  worshipped 

thee; 

108 


And  wayworn  followers  of  the  Indian  sage 
Have  found  the  peace  of  God  beneath  a  spread- 
ing tree. 


But  One,  but  One, — ah,  Son  most  dear, 
And  perfect  image  of  the  Love  Unseen, — 

Walked  every  day  in  pastures  green, 
And  all  his  life  the  quiet  waters  by, 
Reading  their  beauty  with  a  tranquil  eye. 
To  him  the  desert  was  a  place  prepared 

For  weary  hearts  to  rest; 
The  hillside  was  a  temple  blest; 
The  grassy  vale  a  banquet-room 
Where  he  could  feed  and  comfort    many  a 
guest. 

With  him  the  lily  shared 
The  vital  joy  that  breathes  itself  in  bloom; 
And  every  bird  that  sang  beside  the  nest 
Told  of  the  love  that  broods  o'er  every  living 
thing. 

109 


He  watched  the  shepherd  bring 
His  flock  at  sundown  to  the  welcome  fold, 

The  fisherman  at  daybreak  fling 
His  net  across  the  waters  gray  and  cold, 
And  all  day  long  the  patient  reaper  swing 
His  curving  sickle  through  the  harvest  gold. 
So  through  the  world  the  foot-path  way  he 

trod, 

Breathing  the  air  of  heaven  in  every  breath; 
And  in  the  evening  sacrifice  of  death 
Beneath  the  open  sky  he  gave  his  soul  to  God. 
Hun  will  I  trust,  and  for  my  Master  take; 
Him  will  I  follow;  and  for  his  dear  sake, 
God  of  the  open  air, 

To  thee  I  make  my  prayer. 


From  the  prison  of  anxious  thought  that  greed 

has  builded, 
From  the  fetters  that  envy  has  wrought  and 

pride  has  gilded, 

110 


From  the  noise  of  the  crowded  ways  and  the 

fierce  confusion, 
From  the  folly  that  wastes  its  days  in  a  world 

of  illusion, 
(Ah,  but  the  life  is  lost  that  frets  and  languishes 

there !) 
I  would  escape  and  be  free  in  the  joy  of  the  open 

air. 
By  the  breadth  of  the  blue  that  shines  in  silence 

o'er  me, 
By  the  length  of  the  mountain-lines  that  stretch 

before  me, 
By  the  height  of  the  cloud  that  sails,  with  rest 

in  motion, 
Over  the  plains  and  the  vales  to  the  measureless 

ocean, 
(Oh,  how  the  sight  of  the  greater  things  enlarges 

the  eyes !) 
Draw  me  away  from  myself  to  the  peace  of  the 

hills  and  skies. 

While  the  tremulous  leafy  haze  on  the  woodland 
is  spreading, 

111 


And  the  bloom  on  the  meadow  betrays  where 

May  has  been  treading; 
While  the  birds  on  the  branches  above,  and  the 

brooks  flowing  under, 
Are  singing  together  of  love  in  a  world  full  of 

wonder, 
(Lo,   in  the  magic  of  Springtime,   dreams  are 

changed  into  truth !) 
Quicken   my   heart,   and   restore   the   beautiful 

hopes  of  youth. 

By  the  faith  that  the  wild-flowers  show  when 

they  bloom  unbidden, 
By  the  calm  of  the  river's  flow  to  a  goal  that  is 

hidden, 
By  the  strength  of  the  tree  that  clings  to  its  deep 

foundation, 
By  the  courage  of  birds'  light  wings  on  the  long 

migration, 
(Wonderful  spirit  of  trust  that  abides  in  Nature's 

breast !) 
Teach  me  how  to  confide,  and  live  my  life,  and 

rest. 

112 


For  the  comforting  warmth  of  the  sun  that  my 

body  embraces, 
For  the  cool  of  the  waters  that  run  through  the 

shadowy  places, 
For  the  balm  of  the  breezes  that  brush  my  face 

with  their  fingers, 
For  the  vesper-hymn  of  the  thrush  when  the 

twilight  lingers, 
For  the  long  breath,  the  deep  breath,  the  breath 

of  a  heart  without  care, — 
I  will  give  thanks  and  adore  thee,  God  of  the 

open  ah* ! 


These  are  the  gifts  I  ask 
Of  thee,  Spirit  serene: 
Strength  for  the  daily  task, 
Courage  to  face  the  road, 
Good  cheer  to  help  me  bear  the  traveller's 

load, 

And,  for  the  hours  of  rest  that  come  be- 
tween, 

113 


An  inward  joy  in  all  things  heard  and  seen. 

These  are  the  sins  I  fain 

Would  have  thee  take  away: 

Malice,  and  cold  disdain, 

Hot  anger,  sullen  hate, 
Scorn  of  the  lowly,  envy  of  the  great, 
And  discontent  that  casts  a  shadow  gray 
On  all  the  brightness  of  the  common  day. 

These  are  the  things  I  prize 

And  hold  of  dearest  worth: 

Light  of  the  sapphire  skies, 

Peace  of  the  silent  hills, 
Shelter  of  forests,  comfort  of  the  grass, 
Music  of  birds,  murmur  of  little  rills, 
Shadows  of  cloud  that  swiftly  pass, 

And,  after  showers, 

The  smell  of  flowers 
And  of  the  good  brown  earth, — 
And  best  of  all,  along  the  way,  friendship  and 
mirth. 

So  let  me  keep 
These  treasures  of  the  humble  heart 

114 


In  true  possession,  owning  them  by  love; 
And  when  at  last  I  can  no  longer  move 

Among  them  freely,  but  must  part 
From  the  green  fields  and  from  the  waters 

clear, 

Let  me  not  creep 

Into  some  darkened  room  and  hide 
From  all  that  makes  the  world  so  bright 
and  dear; 

But  throw  the  windows  wide 
To  welcome  in  the  light; 
And  while  I  clasp  a  well-beloved  hand, 

Let  me  once  more  have  sight 
Of  the  deep  sky  and  the  far-smiling 

land, — 

Then  gently  fall  on  sleep, 
And  breathe  my  body  back  to  Nature's  care, 
My  spirit  out  to  thee,  God  of  the  open  air. 

1904. 


115 


IV 

WAYFABING  PSALMS  IN  PALESTINE 


THE  DISTANT  ROAD 

BLESSED  is  the  man  that  beholdeth  the  face  of  a 
friend  in  a  far  country, 

The  darkness  of  his  heart  is  melted  by  the  dawn- 
ing of  day  within  him, 

It  is  like  the  sound  of  a  sweet  music  heard  long 

ago  and  hah*  forgotten: 
It  is  like  the  coming  back  of  birds  to  a  wood 

when  the  winter  is  ended. 

I  knew  not  the  sweetness  of  the  fountain  till  I 

found  it  flowing  in  the  desert, 
Nor  the  value  of  a  friend  till  we  met  in  a  land 

that  was  crowded  and  lonely. 

The  multitude  of  mankind  had  bewildered  me 

and  oppressed  me, 
And  I  complained  to  God,  Why  hast  thou  made 

the  world  so  wide? 

119 


But  when  my  friend  came  the  wideness  of  the 

world  had  no  more  terror, 
Because  we  were  glad  together  among  men  to 

whom  we  were  strangers. 

It  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  reading  a  book  in  a 

foreign  language, 
And  suddenly  I  came  upon  a  page  written  in  the 

tongue  of  my  childhood. 

This  was  the  gentle  heart  of  my  friend   who 

quietly  understood  me, 
The  open  and  loving  heart  whose  meaning  was 

clear  without  a  word. 

0  thou  great  Companion  who  carest  for  all  thy 

pilgrims  and  strangers, 

1  thank  thee  heartily  for  the.  comfort  of  a  com- 

rade on  the  distant  road. 


120 


THE  WELCOME  TENT 

THIS  is  the  thanksgiving  of  the  weary, 
The  song  of  him  that  is  ready  to  rest. 

It  is  good  to  be  glad  when  the  day  is  declining, 
And  the  setting  of  the  sun  is  like  a  word  of 
peace. 

The  stars  look  kindly  on  the  close  of  a  journey, 
The  tent  says  welcome  when  the  day's  march  is 
done. 

For  now  is  the  time  of  the  laying  down  of  bur- 
dens, 

And  the  cool  houi  cometh  to  them  that  have 
borne  the  heat. 

I  have  rejoiced  greatly  in  labour  and  adventure; 
My  heart  hath  been  enlarged  in  the  spending 
of  my  strength. 

121 


Now  it  is  all  gone,  yet  I  am  not  impoverished, 
For  thus  only  I  inherit  the  treasure  of  repose. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  teacheth  my  fingers  to 

loosen, 
And  cooleth  my  feet  with  water  after  the  dust 

of  the  way. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  giveth  me  hunger  at 

nightfall, 
And  filleth  my  evening  cup  with  the  wine  of 

good  cheer. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  maketh  me  happy  to 

be  quiet, 
Even  as  a  child  that  cometh  softly  to  his  mother's 

lap. 

O  God,  thy  strength  is  never  worn  away  with 

labour: 
But  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  weary  and  receive 

thy  gift  of  rest. 

122 


THE  GREAT  CITIES 

How  wonderful  are  the  cities  that  man  hath 

builded : 

Their  walls  are  compacted  of  heavy  stones, 
And  their  lofty  towers  rise  above  the  tree- tops. 

Rome,  Jerusalem,  Cairo,  Damascus, — 
Venice,  Constantinople,  Moscow,  Pekin, — 
London,  New  York,  Berlin,  Paris,  Vienna, — 

These  are  the  names  of  mighty  enchantments, 
They  have  called  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
They  have  secretly  summoned  a  host  of  ser- 
vants. 

They  shine  from  far  sitting  beside  great  waters, 
They  are  proudly  enthroned  upon  high  hills, 
They  spread  out  their  splendour  along  the  rivers. 

123 


Yet  are  they  all  the  work  of  small  patient  fingers, 
Their  strength  is  in  the  hand  of  man, 
He  hath  woven  his  flesh  and  blood  into  their 
glory. 

The  cities  are  scattered  over  the  world  like  ant- 
hills, 

Every  one  of  them  is  full  of  trouble  and  toil, 
And  their  makers  run  to  and  fro  within  them. 

Abundance  of  riches  is  laid  up  in  their  trea- 
suries, 

But  they  are  tormented  with  the  fear  of  want, 
The  cry  of  the  poor  in  then*  streets  is  exceeding 
bitter. 

Their  inhabitants  are  driven  by  blind  perturba- 
tions, 

They  whirl  sadly  in  the  fever  of  haste, 
Seeking  they  know  not  what,  they  pursue  it 
fiercely. 

124 


The  air  is  heavy-laden  with  their  breathing, 
The  sound  of  their  coming  and  going  is  never 

still, 
Even  in  the  night  I  hear  them  whispering  and 

crying. 

Beside  every  ant-hill  I  behold  a  monster  crouch- 
ing: 

This  is  the  ant-lion  Death, 

He  thrusteth  forth  his  tongue  and  the  people 
perish. 

O  God  of  wisdom  thou  hast  made  the  country: 
Why  hast  thou  suffered  man  to  make  the  town  ? 

Then  God  answered,  Surely  I  am  the  maker  of 

man: 
And  in  the  heart  of  man  I  have  set  the  city. 


125 


THE  FRIENDLY  TREES 

I  WILL  sing  of  the  bounty  of  the  big  trees, 
They  are  the  green  tents  of  the  Almighty, 
He  hath  set  them  up  for  comfort  and  for  shelter. 

Their  cords  hath  he  knotted  in  the  earth, 
He  hath  driven  their  stakes  securely, 
Their  roots  take  hold  of  the  rocks  like  iron. 

He  sendeth  into  their  bodies  the  sap  of  life, 
They  lift  themselves  lightly  toward  the  heavens. 
They  rejoice  in  the  broadening  of  their  branches. 

Their  leaves  drink  in  the  sunlight  and  the  air, 
They    talk    softly    together    when    the    breeze 

bloweth, 

Their  shadow  in  the  noon -day  is  full  of  coolness. 
126 


The  tall  palm-trees  of  the  plain  are  rich  in  fruit, 
While  the  fruit  ripeneth  the  flower  unfoldeth, 
The  beauty  of  their  crown  is  renewed  on  high 
forever. 

The  cedars  of  Lebanon  are  fed  by  the  snow, 
Afar  on  the  mountain  they  grow  like  giants, 
In  then*  layers  of  shade  a  thousand  years  are 
dreaming. 

How  fair  are  the  trees  that  befriend  the  home  of 

man, 

The  oak,  and  the  terebinth,  and  the  sycamore, 
The  broad-leaved  fig-tree  and  the  delicate  silvery 

olive. 

In  them  the  Lord  is  loving  to  his  little  birds, 
The  linnets  and  the  finches  and  the    nightin- 
gales, 

They  people  his  pavilions  with  nests  and  with 
music. 

127 


The  cattle  also  are  very  glad  of  a  great  tree, 
They  chew  the  cud  beneath  it  while  the  sun  is 

burning, 
And  there  the  panting  sheep  lie  down  around 

their  shepherd. 

He  that  planteth  a  tree  is  a  servant  of  God, 
He  provideth  a  kindness  for  many  generations, 
And  faces  that  he  hath  not  seen  shall  bless  him. 

Lord,  when  my  spirit  shall  return  to  thee, 

At  the  foot  of  a  friendly  tree  let  my  body  be 

buried, 
That  this  dust  may  rise  and  rejoice  among  the 

branches. 


128 


THE  PATHWAY  OF  RIVERS 

THE  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water, 

They   are   wonderful   in   the   renewal   of   their 

strength, 
He  poureth  them  out  from  a  hidden  fountain. 

They  are  born  among  the  hills  in  the  high  places, 
Their  cradle  is  in  the  bosom  of  the  rocks, 
The  mountain  is  their  mother  and  the  forest  is 
their  father. 

They  are  nourished  among  the  long  grasses, 
They  receive  the  tribute  of  a  thousand  springs, 
The  rain  and  the  snow  provide  their  inheritance. 

They  are  glad  to  be  gone  from  their  birthplace, 
With  a  joyful  noise  they  hasten  away, 
They  are  going  forever  and  never  departed. 

129 


The  courses  of  the  rivers  are  all  appointed; 
They  roar  loudly  but  they  follow  the  road, 
For  the  finger  of  God  hath  marked  their  path- 
way. 

The  rivers  of  Damascus  rejoice  among  their  gar- 
dens; 

The  great  river  of  Egypt  is  proud  of  his  ships; 
The  Jordan  is  lost  hi  the  Lake  of  Bitterness. 

Surely  the  Lord  guideth  them  every  one  in  his 

wisdom, 

In  the  end  he  gathereth  all  their  drops  on  high, 
And  sendeth  them  forth  again  in  the  clouds  of 

mercy. 

O  my  God,  my  life  floweth  away  like  a  river: 
Guide  me,  I  beseech  thee,  in  a -pathway  of  good: 
Let  me  run  in  blessing  to  my  rest  in  thee. 


130 


THE  GLORY  OF  RUINS 

THE  lizard  rested  on  the  rock  while  I  sat  among 

the  ruins, 
And  the  pride  of  man  was  like  a  vision  of  the 

night. 

Lo,  the  lords  of  the  city  have  disappeared  into 

darkness, 
The  ancient  wilderness  hath  swallowed   up  all 

their  work. 

There  is  nothing  left  of  the  city  but  a  heap  of 

fragments; 
The  bones  of  a  vessel  broken  by  the  storm. 

Behold  the  waves  of  the  desert  wait  hungrily 

for  man's  dwellings, 
And  the  tides  of  desolation  return  upon  his  toil. 

131 


All  that  he  hath  painfully  built  up  is  shaken 

down  in  a  moment, 
The  memory  of  his  glory  is  buried  beneath  the 

billows  of  sand. 

Then  a  voice  said,  Look  again  upon  the  ruins, 
These  broken  arches  have  taught  generations  to 
build. 

Moreover  the  name  of  this  city  shall  be  remem- 
bered, 

For  here  a  poor  man  spoke  a  word  that  shall 
not  die. 

This  is  the  glory  that  is  stronger  than  the  desert; 
God  hath  given  eternity  to  the  thought  of  man. 


132 


THE  TRIBE  OF  THE  HELPERS 

THE  ways  of  the  world  are  full  of  haste  and  tur- 
moil; 

I  will  sing  of  the  tribe  of  the  helpers  who  travel 
in  peace. 

He  that  turneth  from  the  road  to  rescue  another, 

Turneth  toward  his  goal: 

He   shall   arrive   in   time   by  the  foot-path  of 

mercy, 
God  will  be  his  guide. 

He  that  taketh  up  the  burden  of  the  fainting, 
Lighteneth  his  own  load: 

The  Almighty  will  put  his  arms  underneath  him, 
He  shall  lean  upon  the  Lord. 

He  that  speaketh  comfortable  words  to  mourners, 
Healeth  his  own  hurt: 

133 


In  the  tune  of  grief  they  will  come  to  his  re- 
membrance, 
God  will  use  them  for  balm. 

He  that  careth  for  a  wounded  brother, 
Watcheth  not  alone: 

There  are  three  in  the  darkness  together, 
And  the  third  is  the  Lord. 

Blessed  is  the  way  of  the  helpers, 
The  companions  of  the  Christ. 


134 


THE  GOOD  TEACHER 

THE  Lord  is  my  teacher, 
I  shall  not  lose  the  way. 

He  leadeth  me  in  the  lowly  path  of  learning, 

He  prepareth  a  lesson  for  me  every  day; 

He  bringeth  me  to  the  clear  fountains  of  in- 
struction, 

Little  by  little  he  showeth  me  the  beauty  of 
truth. 

The  world  is  a  great  book  that  he  hath  written, 
He  turneth  the  leaves  for  me  slowly; 
They  are  inscribed  with  images  and  letters, 
He  poureth  light  on  the  pictures  and  the  words. 

He  taketh  me  by  the  hand  to  the  hill-top  of 
vision, 

And  my  soul  is  glad  when  I  perceive  his  mean- 
ing; 

135 


In  the  valley  also  he  walketh  beside  me, 

In  the  dark  places  he  whispereth  to  my  heart. 

Even  though  my  lesson  be  hard  it  is  not  hope- 
less, 

For  the  Lord  is  patient  with  his  slow  scholar; 
He  will  wait  awhile  for  my  weakness, 
And  help  me  to  read  the  truth  through  tears. 


136 


THE  CAMP-FIRES  OF  MY  FRIEND 

THOU  hast  taken  me  into  thy  tent  of  the  world, 

O  God, 

Beneath  thy  blue  canopy  I  have  found  shelter, 
Therefore  thou  wilt  not  deny  me  the  right  of  a 

guest. 

Naked  and  poor  I  arrived  at  thy  door  before 

sunset: 
Thou  hast  refreshed  me  with  beautiful  bowls  of 

milk, 
As  a  great  chief   thou  hast  set  forth  food  hi 

abundance. 

I  have  loved  the  daily  delights  of  thy  dwelling, 
Thy  moon  and  thy  stars  have  lighted  me  to  my 

bed, 

In  the  morning  I  have  made  merry  with  thy  ser- 
vants. 

137 


Surely  thou  wilt  not  send  me  away  in  the  dark- 


There  the  enemy  Death  is  lying  in  wait  for  my 

soul: 
Thou  art  the  host  of  my  life  and  I  claim  thy 

protection. 

Then  the  Lord  of  the  tent  of  the  world  made 

answer: 

The  right  of  a  guest  endureth  for  a  certain  time, 
After  three  days   and   nights  cometh  the  day   of 

departure. 

Yet  hearken  to  me  since  thou  fearest  to  go  in  the 
dark : 

I  will  make  with  thee  a  new  covenant  of  hospi- 
tality, 

Behold  I  will  come  unto  thee  as*  a  stranger  and  be 
thy  guest. 

Poor  and  needy  will  I  come  that  thou  mayest  en- 
tertain me, 

138 


Meek  and  lowly  will  I  come  that  thou  mayest  find 

a  friend, 
With  mercy  and  with  truth  will  I  come  to  give 

thee  comfort. 

Therefore  open  thy  heart  to  me  and  bid  me  wel- 
come, 

In  this  tent  of  the  world  I  will  be  thy  brother  of  the 
bread, 

And  when  thou  farest  forth  I  will  be  thy  companion 
forever. 

Then  my  soul  rested  in  the  word  of  the  Lord; 
And  I  saw  that  the  curtains  of  the  world  were 

shaken, 

But  I  looked  beyond  them  to  the  stars, 
The  camp-fires  of  my  eternal  friend. 


139 


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date  stamped  below. 


Mia. 
PS 

3117 
S82 


